


Open your eyes, take a look behind the curtain (do you like what you see?)

by Hannitah



Series: Take a look behind the curtain [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Cas and Bobby each only show up in one scene, Case Fic, Enochian-Speaking Sam Winchester, Gen, I took some liberties with the Cage trauma, Monsters are Real, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, flashbacks of the cage, so it's technically AU, spoilers for season six of Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24125812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannitah/pseuds/Hannitah
Summary: The BAU gets wind of the existence of the supernatural and goes to the Winchesters for help, but they just got Sam’s soul back and have their own problems to deal with.When a new case comes up where women are getting killed inside locked rooms, they have to put their differences aside and try to work together.
Series: Take a look behind the curtain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750519
Comments: 39
Kudos: 307





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, all rights go to their respective owners. I’m just doing this for fun.

Penelope Garcia, resident hacker extraordinaire and Source of all Knowledge, is rapidly typing on her computer when a notice pops up on another screen. She skims it, pauses, and reads it again, thoroughly this time.

“Holy…”, she murmurs, swivels around in her chair to check and doublecheck the information. Five minutes later, she is staring at the grainy image of two men, caught on a random security camera.

“I did it!”, she exclaims to no one in particular, then presses speed dial number two. Nervous tapping accompanies the dial tone, until finally, someone picks up.

“Hotchner.”

“I did it, I found them! They’re here! I mean, not here here, but like thirty minutes outside of Quantico. And, considering the size of our country, that’s basically our own backyard.” She pauses just long enough to draw in a breath, but Hotch interjects before she can continue her rant.

“Calm down, Garcia. Who did you find?”

“The… brothers!”, she gestures at her screen, frustrated that her own paranoia won’t let her actually say their names. “You remember that case in Maine a couple years back? Our previously undead, now very dead Unsub dropped their names.”

Hotch’s breath hitches, but, as always, he quickly composes himself. He doesn’t bother asking if she’s sure, instead just says “send the address-“

“-to your phones. Already done.”

“Thanks. And Garcia? Good work.”

~*~

Dean pushes open the door to the motel room, balancing two cups of coffee and a bag with sandwiches in his hands. One look at his brother tells him what he had suspected: Sam is sitting on the edge of his bed, in the same position he was in when Dean left half an hour ago, just staring into nothing.

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” Dean injects as much fake cheerfulness into his voice as he can, and Sam flinches visibly. His eyes follow his big brother when Dean dumps the food on the small table and grabs one of the chairs.

“Come on Sammy, I got us breakfast. Coffee and sandwiches from that diner down the street.” Dean pretends to be busy wrapping out his food but keeps looking at his brother from the corner of his eyes. Sam opens his mouth and closes it again, once, twice, before he manages to choke out a quiet “thanks.” He flinches again as if expecting a blow but relaxes when a few seconds pass and nothing happens. He takes the other chair and grabs his sandwich.

Dean grins, takes a bite out of his sandwich – it really is as good as advertised! – and speaks with his mouth full. “I even got you one of those vegetarian ones, with rabbit food. Because I’m the awesomest big brother in the world!”

Sam pulls a bitchface. “That’s not a word, Dean.” He still takes a hesitant bite out if his food.

“Of course it is, it describes me perfectly!”

Sam just rolls his eyes, too busy taking another, much bigger bite of his food.

Dean finishes his sandwich first. He sips his coffee and pretends not to watch his brother eat. Because that would be creepy. He just needs to make sure that his brother is okay, needs to get the image of Sammy lying on that cot in Bobby’s panic room out of his mind. He can still hear Death’s voice, uncharacteristically gentle. _“I’m sorry, Dean, I was unable to construct the wall in Sam’s head.”_ He remembers the uncertainty, the hours and days of waiting for Sam to wake up – and the nagging voice in his head, asking _“What if he doesn’t?”_

He shakes himself out of his thoughts. “So, I was thinking we should head out as soon as possible – being this close to the actual Feds makes my skin crawl.” Sam smirks and nods. “And I thought we could take it easy today – you know, pop open a few cold ones and celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“Yeah, I mean, we just finished our first hunt since we got your soul back, and it went down without a hitch! Plus, one less werewolf, and countless lives saved. Always a cause for celebration, don’t you think?”

“So, this is about the case and not because you’re still worried about me? ‘Cause I already told you, I’m fine, and you constantly looking at me like I’m about to fall over is really irritating.”

“I know what you said, Sam. C’mon, when was the last time we went out for drinks together? Or the last time we took a day off just for fun?”

“We never take days off.”

“Well, I say we start today. It’ll be fun!”

~*~

Hotchner pulls the SUV into the parking lot of the run-down motel. Only about half the space is occupied, and the immediately notices the shiny, black ’67 Impala. Garcia was right – not that he’d ever doubt her. He parks the car and turns off the ignition but hesitates to get out. Instead, he turns to JJ.

“Last chance to back out.”

What they’re about to do could not only end their careers, but send them to prison. Sam and Dean Winchester only made it off the FBI’s Most Wanted List because they were declared dead, and the discovery that they are, in fact, alive, coupled with the explosion of the police station in Monument, would propel them right up to the top of that list.

JJ sends him a determined grin. “Let’s do this.”

They get out of the car. The short distance to the room seems like an endless journey, and Hotch’s thoughts are racing. Despite Garcia’s best efforts, she hadn’t found a lot of useful information about the supernatural – it wasn’t for lack of information, but rather because they had no way to separate truth from legends. Their short encounter with a vampire only gave them one lead: the Winchester brothers, apparently back from the dead. The inconsistencies in their case and especially Dean’s confession about ghosts had made a lot more sense, in light of the new information. So, for lack of better ideas, Garcia had secretly run a search for them, but over the past two years, nothing concrete had shown up. Until today.

And now they are about to knock on the door of two dangerous brothers, just the two of them, and unarmed. Hotch had mulled over it for months after they learned about the Winchester’s supposed survival. At best, they’re dealing with two men who’d been raised to kill monsters and distrust the government, dashed with some paranoia and a possibly unhealthy codependent relationship. At worst, they’re walking in to see two delusional serial killers.

Either way, they had to appear as non-threating as possible, hence going in unarmed. Taking JJ also plays into that – they will hopefully feel less threatened by a woman, and JJ’s experience as their liaison has taught her how to deal with all kinds of people.

Despite all of this preparation, Hotch is uncharacteristically nervous when he knocks on the door.

The man who answers is about as tall as Hotch, with sandy hair and piercing green eyes. He takes in their suits suspiciously. His left hand is curled around the door, ready to close it at a moment’s notice, and his right one is hidden behind his back. “Yeah?”

“Dean Winchester, I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, this is SSA Jennifer Jareau, FBI. We need to talk.”

“Sorry, you got the wrong room.” Dean pushes the door closed, but Hotch manages to catch it at the last second.

“It’s about a vampire.”

Dean frowns, and Hotch plows on. “We’re not here to arrest you. We haven’t called this in and we’re unarmed. We just want to talk.”

Winchester studies his face for several seconds. Then he glances over his shoulder before finally opening the door wider and stepping aside.

“Thanks”, Hotch says as he walks inside. The room itself is simple – two beds, a small table with two chairs, a TV, and an adjacent bathroom. The walls, however, are covered in strange symbols, several weapons are strewn about the bed and in the half-packed duffel bags, and he has to carefully step over a thick line of salt on the floor.

Sam Winchester is standing beside the table. He’s even taller than expected – no wonder Dean seems small in comparison. As if sensing Hotch’s thoughts, he grabs a half-full cup of coffee from the table and sits down on the bed furthest from the door, hunching his shoulders slightly. “Sit down”, he says, motioning to the chairs with a hesitant smile.

Dean is the only one who remains on his feet, leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. “You want to talk about vampires? Talk.”

Hotch wonders absently if this good-criminal bad-criminal routine they’re pulling is intentional or not.

“A couple years back, we worked a case in Maine. We had five victims, all drained of blood. We eventually managed to catch our Unsub in the act in an abandoned warehouse. He seemed delusional, talking about the apocalypse, and how we would all soon be dead anyway, so there was no more point in hiding.”

Sam winces at the mention of the apocalypse, while Dean remains stoic.

“We were forced to shoot him, but our bullets had no effect.” Hotch has to fight to keep his voice level at the memory. “He bared his teeth… or fangs, whatever you want to call them-“

“What did they look like? The teeth?”, Dean interrupts.

“A second set of teeth, sharp and pointed. And, apparently, retractable.”

“They basically ripped out their victim’s throats”, JJ chimes in.

The Winchesters give slight nods. “How did you get out?”, Sam asks.

“A man showed up, out of nowhere. He beheaded the Unsub with a machete, insulted us and told us to forget that ever happened at the same time. By the time we’d processed what had just happened, he’d already disappeared.”

Sam nods again. “Must have been quiet the shock.”

“Why are you telling us this?”, Dean interjects.

“Because we need information. What else is out there, how to recognize it, and how to deal with it.”

“But why us?”

“The Unsub – the… vampire – mentioned you. And we don’t know any other monster hunters who could give us reliable information.”

“Why do you even want to know about this?”, Sam asks. “You know what’s really out there, okay. Fine. But you already have a job. You hunt serial killers, we hunt monsters. You don’t need to get involved in this.”

“We stumbled upon the vampire, and only pure luck saved us. Without that man, he would’ve probably killed us all. How many of the Unsubs we’ve hunted weren’t actually human? And what happens next time we run into a monster? We don’t want to become professional monster hunters, but we need to at least be able to determine if we’re hunting a human monster or not.”

The brothers share a long look, exchanging little eyebrow twitches, frowns, and minute shrugs. Hotch studies them intently, amazed at their level of non-verbal communication. After several moments of silent discussion, Sam is the one to nod and speak. “Okay. How does this work?”

Hotch has to hide his surprise – he had honestly expected this to be a lot harder. “You give us general information, particularly about how to recognize different supernatural creatures. If we encounter one, we call you in as backup. In return, we don’t arrest you. But you have to stop breaking the law.”

“Okay”, Sam says. “First, we also want information from you. Nothing compromising, just a hint here and there about possible hunts. Second, we don’t break the law for fun, we only do it when it’s necessary, and we can’t just stop that.”

“And we take the lead when we’re dealing with monsters. Can’t let you get yourself killed, now can we?” Dean’s grin is small and dangerous, but Hotch can see his point, so he concedes.

“Credit card fraud”, JJ addresses Sam and begins counting on her fingers. “Impersonating federal officers. Grave desecration. Bank robbery. Want me to go on?”

“We don’t exactly get paid”, Sam counters. “We need to get the information somehow. Burning the body is the best way to get rid of angry spirits. One of the hostages was a shapeshifter who had already killed several people, and we had to get to him before we could let the police in. There’s a reason hunters operate outside the law.”

Hotch frowns. He should’ve thought about the possibility that Sam Winchester, a former pre-law student at Stanford, would not break laws unless absolutely necessary. They really need to re-asses the brother’s profiles, in light of this new information. Now is not the time, though, and he knows that the Winchesters are the ones with the leverage, so he sighs. “Okay, as long as you keep it to an absolute minimum. If you get caught, we can’t help you.”

If JJ is shocked by his concessions, she doesn’t show it. The brothers exchange another long look, then nod. “We have a deal”, Dean says. He grins unexpectedly, reaches inside his pocket and draws out a flask. “Let’s drink to it.”

Hotch and JJ share a quick look. They’re both not ones to day-drink, but judging by the calculating looks the brothers are giving them even as they fill four plastic cups with a clear liquid – maybe vodka? – turning down the drink and risking their tentative agreement seems like a bad idea.

When everyone has a cup, the Winchesters lift theirs in a silent toast before knocking it back quickly. The agents share another quick look before following their example. Hotch mentally steels himself against a cheap spirit and instead tastes water. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

On the other side of the table, JJ’s eyes move from her empty cup to the Winchesters. “Was that water?”, she demands.

“Holy water”, Dean corrects. “Congratulations, you’re not possessed by demons.”

“How do you know?”

“Holy water burns demons like acid.”

Hotch files the information away for later. “So, demons are real”, he says. “What else is out there?”

“Werewolves, vampires, witches, ghouls, wendigos…” Sam shrugs. “Just about anything you can think of, really. Except for Bigfoot. And aliens, it’s never aliens.”

Dean murmurs something that sounds like “frigging fairies” under his breath, with a downright murderous expression on his face. Sam just smirks.

“What about the murders in St. Louis?”, JJ asks.

“Shapeshifter”, Dean growls. “Took the form of an ordinary person and tortured their loved ones to death. When we got close, it friggin’ used my face.” He still had a lot of feelings about that.

Hotch finally asks the question that has been on his mind for almost two years. “What about the apocalypse? The world isn’t really going to end, is it?”

Both brothers freeze. Sam’s fingers clench around the flimsy motel blanket, and his stare goes right through the wall. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Dean recovers first, stepping closer and looming over the table, effectively placing himself between his brother and the agents. “You don’t need to worry about the apocalypse. It’s over. Michael and Lucifer are safely locked away where their little pissing contest can’t destroy the world. That’s all you need to know. So don’t ask again.”

Hotch’s eyes flicker to what he can see of Sam, half hidden behind his big brother, but obviously still staring into nothing. He looks back to Dean and nods.

A ringing disrupts the tense silence, and Hotch fishes his phone out of his pocket with a quick apology. He moves to the other end of the room, towards the door, and half expects someone to try to stop him. No one does.

“Hotchner.”

“Aaron, it’s Dave. Everything okay?” The concern is clearly audible.

“Yes, it’s fine. We’ve come to an agreement.” He throws a look over his shoulder, where Dean is now sitting beside Sam on the bed and talking in a low voice.

“Good. That’s good. Listen, we have a new case, and it looks like a weird one. You think they want in?”


	2. Chapter two

The team manages to reign in their curiosity until they’re in the air.

“Okay”, Emily finally says. “What happened? C’mon, spill!”

She, along with Rossi, Morgan, Reid and Garcia, who is on a videocall, lean forward expectantly.

“They’re… not what I expected”, JJ admits.

“Totally crazy?”, Morgan asks.

“On the contrary”, Hotch says. “They were very reasonable and easy to convince.”

“Seriously? You just walked in there and they agreed to help us just because you asked nicely?”

“That’s not what I meant, Morgan. They were suspicious, especially Dean, but they listened and seemed convinced by what we had to say.”

“It’s like we passed some kind of test”, JJ mused. “First with the description of the vampire, and then with the drinks.”

“Are you day-drinking now, Aaron?”, Rossi teases.

“I was expecting alcohol, yes. But what they gave us was holy water. Apparently, it has an… adverse effect on demons.”

“And they were watching us, almost amused, like they knew exactly how we were gonna react.”

“They consciously challenged your expectations of them”, Reid says. “Interesting. The effect of the holy water is not surprising, though. It is commonly believed to repel demons. The same goes for crucifixes, bibles, and hollowed ground, such as churches.”

“Did you find out anything about monsters so far?”, Rossi asks.

“Not much”, JJ admits. “There wasn’t enough time. Just that pretty much everything we can imagine does exist, and that the apocalypse is over.”

“What do you mean, ‘over’?”, Garcia chimes in.

“I think Dean’s exact words were ‘ _Michael and Lucifer are safely locked away where their little pissing contest can’t destroy the world_ ’.”

“Charming”, Rossi mutters.

“There was certainly a lot of rage involved”, Hotch says. “It was personal, probably about his brother.”

“Why Sam?”, Reid asks.

“The mention of the apocalypse triggered him. He was just staring into nothing, as if he had a flashback.”

“He did snap out of it pretty quickly, though.”

“Did you hear what Dean said to him, JJ? I was too far away to hear anything.”

“Not much. The only thing I heard clearly was ‘ _I got you out._ ’”

“Out of where?”, Morgan asks.

JJ just shrugs helplessly, and they all share uneasy glances.

“At least we know that we profiled their close relationship correctly, even if everything else is wrong”, Rossi says.

Before the team could lose themselves in speculation about the Winchesters, Hotch ends the debate. “You’ll have plenty of time to form your own opinion about them on this case. They’ll be meeting us in Pittsburgh.”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea, Hotch?”, Morgan asks.

“Actually, it was my idea”, Rossi says. “You’ll see why in a minute.”

“Dave, before you start, we told the Winchesters that we’d call them en route to go over the case. It’ll be easier if you just have to present it once.”

Rossi nods, and Hotch slips his phone out of his pocket and dials the number he scrawled down on a piece of paper earlier today. He puts it on speaker and lays it on the table. The dial tone cuts through the expectant silence, and with every unanswered ring, Hotch’s heart beats a little bit faster.

“Yeah”, finally comes a deep voice.

“Mr. Winchester, it’s SSA Hotchner.”

“Just call me Sam. Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.” A slight rustling can be heard, then Sam speaks up again over the background growling of a car engine. “So, what’s this case about?”

“I’m SSA David Rossi. Almost 25 years ago, we worked a case in Pittsburgh. The Unsub killed a total of nine women, all blonde, in their early- to mid-thirties. He struck in their homes, sometimes at night, sometimes during the day, but always when the victims were alone. We eventually managed to identify him as Stephen Wilson, a local repairman, and caught him in the house of Sarah Brown, his intended tenth victim. He was shot in the following altercation and died on the scene.

“Earlier today, the detective I was working the case with, Matt Damcott, called me up. Twelve days ago, 32-year old Dana Summers was killed in her house. Then, this morning, 35-year old Sandy Parker was found dead. Both of them were blonde, and both were killed in the same way as the original nine victims.”

“Why weren’t we notified after the first victim was found?”, Hotch asks.

“Because no one made the connection. They were all stabbed to death, and in Dana Summers’ case, Pittsburgh PD initially assumed a crime of passion. But, if you look more closely, the types of knife and especially the position and precision of the cuts on the two new victims match perfectly with the original ones. Not even hesitation marks, nothing.”

“Okay, so we have a copycat with intimate knowledge of the original murders, and who has probably killed before. Why are we involving them?” Morgan nods towards the phone.

“I agree with whoever just said that. Why did you call us?”, Dean chimes in.

“Because both Dana Summers and Sandy Parker were killed inside locked rooms.” At the questioning glances of his teammates, Rossi elaborates. “In both cases, all windows and doors were locked. Sandy Parker’s doors were locked from the inside, and Dana Summers’ alarm system was activated and registered no opened doors or windows. Local police have no idea how the Unsub could’ve gotten inside.”

The team sits in silence for a few moments and mulls over the details of the case, occasionally flipping through pictures of the crime scenes. Indistinct whispering sounds over the phone line, until Dean speaks up again. “Sounds like a classic ghost to me. We have to check the crimes scenes, though. Send us the address and we can be at Sandy Parker’s house in about four hours.”

Hotch nods at Garcia, and even over the laptop screen, he can see her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Send”, she confirms a few seconds later.

“Got it, thanks”, Sam says. “We’ll see you there.” He disconnects the call before Hotch can even say goodbye.

“Not much for small talk, are they?”, Rossi comments drily.

“No, they’re not.” Hotch slips his phone back into his pocket. “But they’re not our friends, they’re informants. They feed us information and we don’t arrest them. It’s that simple.” Rossi raises an eyebrow, but thankfully doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Hotch already knows that it will never be that simple.

~*~

“It’s a trap.”

“Dean, we’ve been over this five times.”

“Yes, and I’m still saying we should hightail it the other way.” Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Okay, let’s assume for a moment you’re right – it’s a trap and they arrest us. I’ll be the first to admit that I hate getting arrested, and being back on the FBI’s Most Wanted List would be a pain in the ass, but it’s nothing we haven’t handled before.”

“If they arrest us. They could be having their own agenda.”

Sam turns a bit more towards his brother, brows furrowed. “You thinking monsters or humans?”

Dean just shrugs.

“Humans we can deal with. Monsters… I mean, the motel room was pretty heavily warded. Anything that can enter without batting an eye, wouldn’t need to play games with us. They could just take us out.”

“Thanks, Sammy, that makes me feel so much better.” Dean’s voice oozes sarcasm.

“I’m just saying, Dean, they got no reason to lay a trap. If they’re telling the truth, though, it’s a one-in-a-lifetime-opportunity.”

“You mean twice-in-a-lifetime. Or did you forget Henrickson?” His voice is sharper than intended, but the memory still sends a rush of guilt through him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Sam wince.

His little brother quickly brushes it off, though. “We would have actual cases brought to us, not to mention access to the FBI database. And if we do someday land back on the Most Wanted List, we’d have someone on the inside.”

“I doubt that Agent Stick-up-his-ass is gonna help us in any way. He’d rather put us back on that list himself.” Cas could fly them out of any cell, but he hasn’t been answering prayers lately, and their last meeting didn’t end too well.

Sam gets him back on track before his thoughts can drift off too far. “He hasn’t so far, I’ve checked.”

Dean grumbles. “What else did you find on them?”

“They’re from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico – they create profiles of serial killers to help local law enforcement limit down the suspect pool. They have a pretty impressive record, too.”

“Profilers. Great. Just what I needed.” Feds were bad enough, but profilers would probably take one good look at Sam and decide he was short of a few marbles. He definitely was, but Dean figures his little brother has every right to be, after what he’s been through. Still, not everyone needs to witness that. Especially if they could lock him away in a nuthouse.

“Hotchner is the team leader, Jareau the media liaison. The rest of the team consists of David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid – wow, he’s got three PhDs. And he’s my age.”

“Save your nerdgasm for later, Sam. What else?”

“I found the case they referred to. It does sound like vamp killings, and according to the newspaper article, the suspect was killed when he resisted arrest. No word about hunters.”

“Typical, feds claiming the credit.”

“But the killings did stop. And it was their team that worked the case.”

“Okay. So, they’re probably telling the truth.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve already decided that we’re going, haven’t you?”

Sam grins. “Dude, we’re almost there anyway.”

“I could still turn Baby around.” It’s half-hearted at best, and Dean knows that Sam knows that.

“If we don’t show up, they will put us back on the FBI’s radar.”

“Great.” Dean sighs. “Okay. You’ve got like half an hour to find out everything we need to know about this case.”

~*~

As promised, Dean pulls up in front of Sandy Parker’s house half an hour later. As they get out of the car, Sam routinely scans the street. No suspicious behavior, not even the government-issued cars Sam was expecting – he’d texted Hotchner their time of arrival.

The brothers exchange a look.

“Didn’t they wanna meet us here?”, Dean asks.

“That’s what Hotchner said.”

“Well, I’m not waiting for them like a trained dog.” Dean purposely walks up to the two-story house. Sam pats down his pockets, quickly making sure he has everything he needs, before following his brother.

Dean has already cut the police seal on the door and is busy picking the lock when Sam catches up with him. His eyes land on a pot with flowers, their bright blue petals shining in the afternoon sun. Dean smiles triumphantly when the door swings open.

The house is homely – just what Sam used to dream of, back in college. His fingertips brush over a picture of Sandy and a man, grinning into the camera.

“Her boyfriend?”, Sam asks quietly.

“Husband.” Dean holds up another picture, this one showing Sandy in a white dress and the man in a black tuxedo.

Jess comes to his mind, in that bright summer dress she liked so much. His memories are quick to surface these days, and refuse to stay down for too long – especially the bad ones. He forces himself to focus on the case, pulls the EMF out of his pocket and switches it on. “Nothing down here”, he concludes after a sweep of the living room, kitchen, and small bathroom. “I’m gonna head up the stairs.”

Dean nods in acknowledgment and continues going through the stuff in the living room. At the top of the stairs, Sam instantly spots the one he was looking for. The door is barely hanging on its hinges, and splinters rise from the split frame like spikes on a hedgehog. He takes in the room with one look. A king-sized bed is standing on the left, a desk to the right, and bookcases line the far wall. The cream-colored carpet is drenched in blood.

Sam carefully steps closer and holds out the EMF. It continues rumbling quietly.

“Huh.”

“What?”, Dean asks. He pokes his head into the room and pulls a face. “Damn, this looks like the set of a horror movie.”

“No EMF.” Sam stares at the device in his hands.

“Seriously? Why the hell-“ Dean abruptly cuts himself off. He puts a finger to his lips, then motions downwards.

Sam nods, he heard it too. The front door closes, and several sets of footsteps make their way up the stairs. Sam’s eyes flicker to the windows – they’re facing the backyard, away from the street and prying eyes, making it a good escape route. It hasn’t come to that yet, though. The brothers silently move to stand on both sides of the ruined door, close to the wall so that they’re not visible from the hallway.

The steps grow closer, Sam’s hand curls around the gun tucked into his waistband, and then Hotchner steps through the door.

The brothers relax slightly. The agent frowns. “I should’ve known you two wouldn’t wait outside.”

“We thought we could get a head start”, Sam explains.

Agent Jareau follows her boss onto the room, accompanied by a man Sam instantly recognizes from book covers.

“I’m Agent David Rossi. We spoke on the phone.”

“I’m Sam, that’s Dean. But you probably knew that already.”

“I’ve heard a thing or two.”

“What would you have done if it had been local police officers that came to check on the scene again?”, Hotchner interrupts the pleasantries.

“Look, we appreciate the concern, but we can take care of ourselves.” Dean’s grin is just a tad too wide to still be considered charming.

“Really.” Hotchner seems unimpressed. Maybe that frown is a permanent fixture on his face, Sam muses. He misses Dean reaching into his jacket pocket and has to suppress a groan when his brother pulls out his fake FBI badge.

“Hi, I’m Special Agent Anderson, this is my partner Special Agent Tapping” he motions to Sam. “We’re with the FBI.”

“And people believe that?”, Jareau questions.

“Of course.” Dean grins. “You just have to be confident enough.” It is a bit more than that, but confidence really is the most important part, so Sam chooses not to correct his brother.

“They would wonder why the FBI would send two independent teams for one case”, Hotchner says.

“Oh, no, Agent Tapping and me, we’re working another case, but we thought they might be connected and came to check it out. We’re very thorough, you know.”

“Impersonating a federal officer is a serious offence. I could arrest you for that.”

Dean shifts his stance, clearly preparing for a heated debate.

Sam feels his anger rise. A young woman died in this very room not 24 hours ago, and they’re squabbling among each other. He cuts Dean’s reply short. “That’s enough!”

Four heads jerk in his direction. “We all want the same thing, don’t we? To catch whoever did this.” Sam motions at the bloodstain. “You can finish your argument when we’ve got him.”

Dean and Hotchner throw each other one last, annoyed look before turning away. Sam lets out a breath. The unexpected wave of red, hot rage that was gathering inside him slowly simmers down.

“So, have you found anything supernatural yet?”, Jareau asks. She sounds more excited than is probably appropriate for the situation.

Sam is glad for the change in topic. “We were just checking for EMF, but haven’t found anything. Maybe we should check the body.” He glances at his brother.

“EMF?”, Jareau asks.

“Ghosts leave behind electromagnetic fields which can be picked up by this.” Sam holds up the EMF meter. “They fade after a while, but since she only died last night, we should be able to pick something up.”

“Let me see.” Dean steps up and grabs the EMF meter. He begins moving through the room, tinkering with the device.

“Dude, you’re not gonna find anything. I know how to use an EMF”, Sam says with an annoyed frown.

Jareau and Hotchner shadow Dean, while Rossi steps closer to Sam.

“He’s a bit touchy today, isn’t he?” Rossi’s eyes flick to Dean, and quickly back to Sam.

“He doesn’t like being threatened.”

“And what about you?”

Sam halts. He doesn’t feel threatened. “Maybe I have more faith in our agreement than my brother.”

“Faith.” Rossi studies him for a moment. “Are you religious?”

“It’s hard not to believe in Heaven and Hell when you’ve seen them.”

Rossi’s eyes widen. “So, it’s real then? Heaven, Hell, angels, demons… God? It’s all real?”

“Yes.”

“That’s- I mean… wow.”

“It’s a lot to take in, I know.” Sam smiles reassuringly.

Dean steps back up to them, grumbling. “No EMF.”

Sam refrains from saying ‘I told you so’, but makes sure his face conveys the message.

“Yeah, I know, okay? Great. My money was on a ghost.” He turns to the agents. “Did you find anything out of the ordinary on the crime scene?”

“You mean apart from the ‘locked-from-the-inside’ thing?”, Rossi asks. He apparently got over his shock.

“Yes”, Sam says. “Like sulphur or hex bags – little bags filled with herbs and animal bones.”

“Sulphur”, Dean muses. “You thinking Stephen Wilson managed to claw his way back up?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s been almost 25 years.” “ _How long does it take to twist a soul beyond recognition? What do you think, Sammy, you wanna find out?” Ice-cold hands run carefully down his spine, around to his stomach. “I think it would be a nice experiment”, His voice purrs into his ear. “And we’ve got all the time we want.” The pressure on his stomach increases, freezing fingers clawing their way through his skin- “Sam!”_

“Sammy!”

Sam blinks, stares at Dean. His brother is standing before him, studying him with concern. “Focus, Sammy. Almost 25 years, right?”

“Yeah.” His skin still feels too cold, phantom hands rummaging through his intestines. “293 months, to be exact. That’s 293 years on the racks, and considering he was pretty twisted to begin with…”

“Could be enough.” Dean turns to Hotchner. “Did you find any sulphur?”

“No. No hex bags, either.”

“What does that mean?”, Jareau asks.

Sam launches into an explanation, glad for the distraction from his own thoughts. “There aren’t many beings that can get into a locked room. Ghosts are the most common ones, which is why we checked for EMF. Sulphur would mean a demon, and hex bags a witch. Maybe a cursed object.”

“Locked room could also be an angel”, Dean adds. “But it’s not really their style. Not enough burned-out eyes.”

“What about a pagan god?”

“Crap, I hope not. Those are a pain in the ass.”

“Angels and pagan gods?”, Jareau questions. “Murder doesn’t sound very… divine.”

“Nothing about them is very divine, lady”, Dean says with a snort. “Most of them are just douchebags with wings.”

The agents stare at them in shock, and Sam quickly speaks up. “Angels aren’t fluffy, harp-playing beings. Think of them more like God’s soldiers. Only He hasn’t been around to give them orders in a very long time.”

“God is… not around?” Even Hotchner’s cool demeanor is cracking now.

“Yeah, that’s part of the problem.”

Rossi opens and closes his mouth. He makes to speak up again when a cell phone rings.

Hotchner turns away to answer it. “Yes, Morgan.” He clears his throat. “Yes, everything’s fine… Good. You and Prentiss talk to him.” He ends the call and turns back to the others. “Sandy Parker’s husband just arrived at the police station, Morgan and Prentiss are going to talk to him.”

“Where was he, anyway?”, Dean asks.

“He spent the last two days on a congress in Miami. His flight landed early this morning, and when he returned home and found a locked room with no answer from the inside, he broke down the door and found her. He was in shock, EMTs had to treat him. And we already checked his alibi, he was on a plane at the time of the murder.”

“Okay, it wasn’t the husband. Great. We should check on the body now.” Dean turns to Sam and quirks an eyebrow in a silent question, but Sam shakes his head.

“You go, I’ll stay here and take another look at the crime scene.”

Dean’s brow furrows with doubt and concern, but Sam tilts his head to tell his big brother to go, he’ll be fine.

“Okay. Looks like I’ll be going alone, then.”

“I’ll come with you”, Jareau volunteers after a quick glance at her boss.

“After you, then.” Dean motions towards the door with a flourish and a smile.

“I’ll go back to the station”, Hotchner says. “Dave, you good to stay here?”

“Of course, Aaron. I’m curious to know how he got in. Maybe we’ll find something.”

After a quick goodbye, Sam and Rossi are left alone in the room.

The agent fishes his phone out of his pocket. “I also have pictures of the scene, if you’re interested.”

Sam nods. “Let’s get to work.”


	3. Chapter three

Reid knocks on Rossi’s hotel room door. The older agent opens and waves him inside.

“Are they here yet?”, Reid asks curiously.

“Not yet. They wanted to go get hotel rooms first.”

Reid nods and looks around the room. Morgan, JJ, Hotch, Prentiss and Rossi are already sitting on various chairs and the bed, and the laptop screen on the table shows Garcia in the comfort of her office. The BAU team and the Winchesters had agreed to meet here to privately discuss the case. And, in Reid’s case, start on the long list of questions about the supernatural. He settles down on the bed beside Morgan, sinking into the too-soft mattress. His fingers tap against the cream-colored blanket impatiently.

Luckily, only a few minutes later, a knock sounds on the door. Rossi motions them inside like old friends. The brothers scan the room, and Reid doesn’t have to look at his friends to know that he’s not the only one studying the Winchesters. Despite being the smaller one, Dean is more intimidating. Sam is slightly hunched in on himself, and smiling when the official introductions are made, while his brother looks ready to pounce on anyone getting too close to Sam. When they sit down, Dean chooses the chair between Sam and the door.

“I suggest we start with the case before we get to the more general questions”, Hotch says.

At several nods around the room, Emily speaks up first. “We spoke to Simon Parker earlier today. He was the one who discovered her body when he got home from a congress in Miami. In the three years he and Sandy were married, there were only a handful of times he had to travel for work like that. According to him, she didn’t like staying at the house alone; it’s old and it creaks, so it sometimes sounds like someone is walking around in it. That’s also why she not only locked the front and back door, but also the bedroom door before going to bed yesterday evening.”

“Other than that, he didn’t remember anything weird or out of the ordinary”, Morgan adds.

“Could the Unsub have had a key to the house? Or gotten inside with a ruse?”, JJ asks.

“Maybe inside the house”, Rossi says. “But not inside the bedroom. We know the door was locked because Mr. Parker had to break it down. The key was inserted from the inside, and it’s one of those simple, old-fashioned locks, where you can only insert one key at a time. So even if the Unsub had a bedroom key, he wouldn’t have been able to use it.”

“I checked Dana Summers’ alarm system”, Garcia chimes in. “It was clean, not tampered with in any way, and it shows no opened doors or windows from the moment the husband left to drive the kid to school until he came back in the evening. Thankfully, the son spent the afternoon at a friend’s house, so he didn’t have to see her like that.” She shudders. “Poor kid.”

“Why did she even activate the alarm during the day?”, Sam asks.

“There was a string of burglaries in the neighborhood”, Hotch explains. “She could have just been overly cautious, but we should definitely ask her husband about this.”

“I already called him, he’s coming in tomorrow morning to speak with us”, JJ says.

“Good. You two were debating about possible monsters earlier. What do you have?” Hotch looks at the Winchesters without pulling a face at the strange turn the conversation is taking.

“Well, it looks like a typical ghost at first”, Dean begins. “But there’s no EMF on the scene nor on the body.”

“And two separate crime scenes is also unusual for a ghost”, Sam speaks up.

“Why is that unusual?”, Reid asks.

Sam launches into an explanation. “A ghost is basically the soul of a person who died but for some reason didn’t move on, usually after a violent death. They haunt places with significance for them, like their home, their workplace, or the place they died in, and they usually can’t move away from that.”

“Unless they possess someone or they’re tied to an object that’s being moved”, Dean adds.

“So, you’re thinking Stephen Wilson kills women even after he died? By why start only now?”, Emily asks.

“Okay, first of all, it could be Wilson, but it could also be one of his victims”, Sam says.

“His victims were good women”, Rossi interrupts angrily.

“I’m not saying they weren’t. But being stuck as a ghost, it drives them all crazy eventually. They get angry and begin to lash out at innocent people.”

“Can’t you… help them?”, JJ asks.

“You can put them to rest. Force them to move on.”

“Move on to where?”, Reid wants to know.

“Heaven or Hell.” Reid hears several people suck in a breath at Sam’s answer.

“Who decides whether someone goes to Heaven or to Hell?”, Emily asks.

“The Ancient Egyptians believed that after their death, the god Anubis would weight their heart against a feather, while-“

Dean cuts off his brother. “What he means is, we don’t know.”

Morgan elbows Reid lightly. “There’s two of you”, he murmurs into his ear, and only grins at Reid’s scowl.

“How do you put someone to rest?” Rossi’s question gets them back on track.

“Burning the body is the best way”, Dean explains. “But Wilson was cremated, so it’s either not him or he’s bound to something else. Could be a part of his body that didn’t burn, like a lock of hair, or an object that held significance for him.”

“How are we supposed to find that?”, JJ asks.

“If it’s an object”, Sam explains. “It’s likely something that was passed on from Dana Summers to Sandy Parker. Is there any connection between them?”

“Dana Summers was a stay-at-home-mom to eight-year-old Noah, while Sandy Parker was a teacher at a local high school. Apart from the very flimsy connection over the school system and the fact that they’re the same type living in the same neighborhood, I can’t find anything. Credit card statements show they went to different supermarkets, different restaurants, Parker had a membership in a fitness studio while Summers volunteered at church. I can’t find anything concrete”, Garcia says.

Silence settles, while everyone mulls over the information.

“You were discussing other theories as well”, Hotch remembers.

“Yes”, Sam says. “Demons or witches could also get into locked rooms, but we have no useful evidence. Speaking of demons, I wanted to give you these.” Sam pulls several pendants out of his pocket and begins distributing them to the agents. Reid studies the amulet, it is a pentagram with intricate markings on it. “As long as you carry that with you, demons won’t be able to possess you.”

“How does it work?”, Reid asks.

“What do you mean?” Sam shoots him a confused look.

“Why can’t a demon possess you?”

“They just can’t.” Sam shrugs.

“But how do you know it works if you don’t know how it works? How do you know anything works?”

“It’s mostly based on knowledge passed from one hunter to the next, and from old myths and legends. It can be a bit trial and error at times.”

Reid’s eyebrows shoot up at Sam’s nonchalance. “That can’t be safe.”

“Hunting’s not safe”, Dean says. “You either learn fast, or you die fast.”

“You always carry one of these around with you?”, Morgan interrupts.

“We got tattoos.” The brothers shift on their chairs and pull down their layers of flannel enough to reveal the same symbol inked into their chests. “You should get one too, if you want to stay in the business”, Sam comments.

Hotch clears his throat. “Thank you.” He nods to Sam and slips the charm into his pocket. “Let’s get back to the case. We shouldn’t dismiss the possibility that this in, in fact, a copycat killer who got access through conventional means.”

“Both women were killed the same way”, JJ says. “A long cut over the abdomen, deep enough to incapacitate them, but not kill them instantly. The Unsub used what he could find in the houses to muffle their screams – a towel in Dana Summers’ case, and a shirt in Sandy Parker’s. Then, while they were bleeding out, he made several smaller cuts on their chests and arms. The ME estimates that it took the women about two hours to bleed out and die.”

“He knew what he was doing with the smaller cuts”, Dean adds grimly. “Maximum pain with minimal bleeding.”

Sam pales a bit, and Reid can’t fault him.

“The wounds show that he used a serrated blade, same as Wilson”, JJ goes on. “And there were no hesitation marks.”

“A sexual sadist. And Dana Summers was not his first victim”, Hotch speculates. “Garcia, did you find any similar murders?”

“Eugh, you don’t want to know how many women get stabbed every year. But so far, nothing with that type of knife or the level of torture.”

“Are you sure it was the same type of knife as in the original murders?”, Sam asks.

“Yes”, JJ answers. “Why?”

“The newspaper articles didn’t mention the knife, nor the wound pattern, I checked. And since Wilson was killed, the case never made it to trial. So, the only ones with that level of knowledge are the killer and the cops.”

“It is not uncommon for a serial killer to keep some sort of trophy or record to relive the murders”, Reid explains. “While the trophy itself is often innocuous to bystanders, Wilson could’ve kept a journal, videos, or pictures, which someone could’ve found.”

“We found pictures in Stephen Wilson’s apartment”, Rossi says. “From during and after the murders. They were taken into evidence.”

“We have enough to present the profile first thing in the morning. Then we’ll speak to the husbands again”, Hotch says.

“We need to ask them a few questions, too.” Dean stays calm under Hotch’s glare, which is not easy, as Reid knows all too well.

“You’re not officially part of this investigation.”

“No, but unless you want to ask about the signs of a haunted house, we’re talking to him. You can watch, if you want.” He winks.

“Actually, Dean”, Sam jumps into the standoff. “You talk to him, I’ll hit the books, see what else I can find.”

“I can help you”, Reid offers.

Sam’s gaze snaps to him, clearly surprised. Then his lips twitch into a smile. “Sure.” Reid smiles back and ignores Morgan’s angry look the same as Sam ignores his brother’s.

“That’s settled then.” An amused smile is on Rossi’s lips. “I don’t know about you, but I could eat something.”

“Yes, please”, Emily says. “How about pizza?”

“We’re in”, Dean says. “I’ll take a pepperoni. Sam?”

“Margarita for me.”

“Seriously, Sammy? You can’t live off of your rabbit food forever.”

“Pizza hardly counts as ‘rabbit food’.” Sam rolls his eyes.

“Actually”, Reid chimes in. “If by ‘rabbit food’ you’re referring to a vegetarian or vegan diet, you can live off it. As long as you make sure to get all necessary vitamins and nutrients and take in enough calories per day, you don’t need to eat meat for a healthy diet. In fact, a recent study suggested that a vegetarian diet lowered the risk of…”

He tapers off at the looks he gets. His team’s as impatient as always, Sam is smirking in amusement, and Dean is staring flatly at him. “Does it risk the chance of getting hit in the face?”, the hunter asks darkly.

Reid opens his mouth to shoot something back, but Sam is quicker. “Ignore him. He woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.”

“No”, Dean says. “My day was starting just fine, until some overeager Feds showed up, playing at hunting.”

Rossi tries to diffuse the tension. “How did you get involved in this? Hunting monsters isn’t exactly on the list of school counselor approved jobs.”

Dean’s frown only deepens, and his brother looks upset, but answers quickly. “You’ve read our files, right? The fire that killed our mom wasn’t an electrical fire as it was claimed in the official reports. It was a demon. So, our dad took us on the road, made it his – our – mission to learn as much as possible about the supernatural and hunt down the thing that killed her.”

“And did you?”, Reid asks, well aware that he’s treading on uncertain ground.

“Yes. Eventually.” Sam’s answer isn’t full of pride, but rather a bone-deep weariness. Someone his age shouldn’t be allowed to sound that old, Reid muses, but he recognizes the attitude of someone fighting the same fight day in, day out, with no end in sight. Always just waiting for the next monster to hunt.

Reid knows what it’s like to hunt the lowest of humanity, to have the blood and tears seared into his brain. Does he really want to add nightmares of the supernatural kind of monsters to that?


	4. Chapter four

Sam opens the motel room door, panting; sweat is running down his face. His heart is racing, and the fire in his veins is almost enough to melt the block of ice permanently stuck in his chest.

“You went for a run?” Dean emerges from the small bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Dude, did you get any sleep last night?”

“Yeah, I did.” It was a couple hours until the nightmares – memories? It’s hard to tell these days – forced him out of bed.

Dean scoffs, but Sam simply ignores him in favor of taking a shower. The water is scalding, and his furious scrubbing is turning his skin pink. As soon as the water begins to get colder, he turns off the spray and quickly dries himself off.

“Hey!” Dean bangs on the door. “I’m gonna get us some breakfast!”

“Okay!”

“You…” Dean hesitates. “Never mind. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Sam hears the door fall shut just as he exits the bathroom. He pulls on some clothes – jeans and one of his usual flannel shirts, since he won’t be going to the police station. He finishes just minutes after Dean left for food, and now he has nothing to do.

His heart beats faster. He just managed to outrun his memories, if he stands still now, they’re going to catch up to him. He paces restlessly around the room. An idea strikes him.

“Hey Cas, it’s Sam. I- We’re in Pittsburgh, in the Blue Star Motel, we’re working this case with- it doesn’t matter. I just- I wanted to ask how you were. But you’re probably busy, so I’ll stop bothering you. Just- you can always drop by, you know? If you want.”

Sam takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. His neck is tingling, a barely noticeable surge of electricity running down his spine. He spins around, already reaching for his gun, but there’s nothing. He freezes and blinks. Between one moment and the next, Cas is standing in front of him.

“Sam.” The angel smiles and steps up to him with open arms.

“Cas.” He watches him advance with curiosity, still on alert, but slowly relaxing. Cas’ arms circle around his back stiffly, and Sam has to keep himself from flinching away. The contact is like rain after a hot summer day, like a deep ocean glistening in the sun. Tense muscles relax, and Sam’s arms automatically return the hug. When they finally pull apart, Cas is still smiling, though his eyes are filled with concern, and his head is tilted as he studies Sam.

“How are you feeling, Sam? Dean prayed and told me that you woke up, and I meant to come see you sooner, I just- Raphael is-“

“It’s fine, Cas, don’t worry about it. I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I saw your soul when Death put it back in. It was…” He trails off when Sam turns away. He doesn’t need to hear how tainted his soul looks. He sinks heavily onto his bed, and after a moment of hesitation, Cas sits down opposite of him, on Dean’s bed.

“When three days had passed and you still hadn’t woken up, I said some… things to Dean and I left. I’m sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t have left you alone, I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“Cas, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“I do. I… I told Dean it would have been kinder to send your soul to Heaven than to put it back into your body. I wanted to spare you the pain.”

Sam sucks in a breath. Cas wanted to kill him. He knows he should be more upset, but the angel’s face is uncharacteristically open, full of sorrow and regret. Under Sam’s gaze, he bows his head. The hunter reaches out and clasps a hand on his shoulder. A soothing wave washes over Sam.

“I understand.” Cas eyes snap up, searching for Sam’s. “Cas, you wanted to help me. You’re my friend and I know you only wanted to do the right thing. I’m not angry.”

“Thank you.” Cas’ words are simple, but his eyes convey everything he can’t say. Sam squeezes his shoulder gently before taking his arm back. The angel’s eyes follow his hand and a slight frown appears on his face.

“What? What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, there’s something…” His eyes stare into space.

“Cas?”

“I have to go.”

“What? Why? Cas!”

The room is already empty, and Sam throws up his hands in frustration.

~*~

Dean straightens his tie in the Impala’s rearview mirror and tries not to grimace at the tight noose around his neck. He’s never liked wearing those monkey-suits, but they’re a necessary evil. He checks the clip on his gun, tucks it into his waistband and gets out of Baby. Showtime.

The officer at the reception desk studies him with interest when he walks into the police station. She’s a bit too old for his taste, but still hot, with dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail. He grins at her and leans against the table.

“Hey there.” He flashes his fake FBI badge. “I’m Special Agent Anderson. Is Agent Hotchner already here?”

She raises an eyebrow and points at the back. “Through there. They’re giving the profile right now.”

“Thanks.” He throws her one last smile before stepping through the door she indicated and landing in a bullpen. Most of the desk are abandoned though, and a bulk of police officers – some in uniform, some plainclothes – are gathered at the back of the room. Weaving between the desks, Dean gets close enough to make out Hotchner, Prentiss, Jareau, Morgan and Rossi.

He only half listens to the profile – what does it matter that they think the killer is white, between 30 and 40 years old and can’t get it up when it’s clearly a supernatural case? Instead, he scans the pictures on the boards – the left one is reserved for the original case and a map of the area, while the right one shows the recent murders. Rossi’s next words pull his attention away.

“The Unsub uses blitz attacks to incapacitate the victims. This indicates that he’s either not physically capable of overpowering his victims or does not have enough confidence to try it.”

He’s got a point, Dean has to admit. Monsters are generally stronger than humans, so why would they use the same technique as Wilson? Granted, bleeding out from a gut wound is a crappy way to go, but not the worst, and judging by the level of skill the killer showcased with those other cuts, he knows how to draw out the torture. Then why limit the time with the victim by making that first big cut? The only reason a monster would stick that closely to the original murders was because it needed to – which brought Dean back to ghosts. Great.

Scraping of chairs indicates the end of the presentation, and the officers disperse, quietly talking among themselves.

Jareau approaches Dean and he smiles. She’s not too bad, he decided yesterday at the morgue. It doesn’t hurt that she’s easy on the eyes, too.

“Hey Dean. Mr. Summers is already here, in the conference room. We’re going to speak to him now, if you want to join in.”

“Yeah. Lead the way.” He smiles, and she reciprocates it. Yeah, not too bad at all.

~*~

Two hours later, and Dean is pulling out a paper coffee cup with too much force. He pours himself some of that dark sludge the police call coffee and checks his phone again. Nothing. Bad enough that neither husband could give them anything useful – not even a flickering of the light or a measly cold spot, nothing! – now Sam wasn’t answering his texts.

“Sam and Reid are in a library, he probably didn’t notice the texts”, a voice behind him says.

Dean whirls around, splattering coffee over his hand. “Crap!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Prentiss reaches over to the counter and grabs a few napkins from the dispenser. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He dries off his hand, balls up the now soggy napkins and throws them in the trash. Prentiss watches his every move.

“What did you mean?”, he finally asks.

She doesn’t even pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “You’ve been checking your phone every few minutes since we finished with Mr. Summers, even when we were talking to Mr. Parker. And you didn’t like that Sam went with Reid. You probably texted Sam that Summers didn’t notice anything, and now that he still hasn’t answered, you’re worried about him.”

Dean stares at her. “Freaking profilers.”

She grins before growing serious again. “Reid’s a good agent. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he wasn’t. Sam is in good hands. Besides, your brother looks like he can take care of himself.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. He does know, he just can’t get those images out of his head – Sammy lying in Bobby’s panic room, pale and deathly still – the worst week of Dean’s life. He had insisted upon putting Sam’s soul back in, even after demons, angels and Death himself had warned him of the dangers. And now his little brother is running around with Hell in his head, because of him.

“You’re close.” The agent is still studying him.

“We’re brothers.”

“Not all brothers get along.”

“We grew up in each other’s pockets. I practically raised him. So, yeah, we’re close. I know him better than anyone.” Unless maybe Lucifer, but he squashes that thought as soon as it comes up. A beep tears him out of his thoughts.

_Sorry, no phones in the library. Nothing from our end either. About to grab lunch, you in? -Sam._

His tense muscles relax a fraction, and Prentiss grins at him. “See? I told you they’re fine.”

“Yeah. That idiot. You wanna grab lunch?”

~*~

The ride to the diner Sam and Reid chose is surprisingly pleasant. Prentiss is the only one who decided to accompany him, and he’s secretly glad to be away from Hotchner’s and Morgan’s withering stares for a while. When she compliments Baby and ropes him into a discussion about Led Zeppelin’s second album, he catches himself wishing the drive would last longer. All too soon, they pull up in front of the diner.

The bell above the door rings when they enter, and Dean scans the room, instantly noticing his brother and Reid in a booth at the back. They’re animatedly discussing something, and Sam barely looks up when they squeeze past the waitress and make their way over. He manages to make out the tail end of the Doc’s sentence.

“…that all societies form a believe system and-“

“Hey.” Reid startles when Dean slides into the booth beside Sam, where he has a good view of the front door.

“What are you two talking about?” Prentiss sits down beside Reid, throwing an uneasy glance over her shoulder – clearly not happy with baring her back to the room.

Dean grabs a menu while Reid turns to his fellow agent. “We were talking about the societal structure of Hell. They have their own hierarchy, values and believes. There is loyalty, some even go so far as to consider themselves family. It’s really interesting.”

Dean drops his menu, his gaze jumping from Reid to Sam and back. “What the hell?”

Prentiss snorts, but before he can form a better reply, the waitress steps to their table. “What can I get you today?”

Dean’s mind is too occupied by Reid’s words – because why is Sam talking about Hell in his condition?! – so he just glances at the menu and orders the first burger he sees. The waitress has already taken their orders back to the kitchen when he realizes all that Sam chose was a salad – not enough for his giant of a brother. Also, not the best place to bring up the food issue again.

“Did you find out anything?” Prentiss asks, looking between the two nerds curiously. “About the case, I mean.”

Reid closes his mouth again and visibly deflates.

“Not really”, Sam speaks up. “I mean, we’ve got the usual legends and myths, but nothing that fits our case. The librarian wasn’t very helpful, either. But he did say that this afternoon, another librarian is on shift, and that if anyone can help us, it’s her. She’s a history student, and apparently local legends are a hobby of hers.”

“I hope she knows more than those husbands”, Dean says. “’Cause that was a bust. No flickering lights, no cold spots, no smell of sulphur, nothing weird at all. Oh, and Mr. Summers confirmed that she activated the alarm because of those burglaries in the neighborhood.”

“What does that mean for the case?” Prentiss looks between Dean and Sam.

Dean shrugs. “We keep digging. Or call in some backup.”

“Backup?” Both agents ask at the same time.

“Other hunters.” Dean shuts his mouth as he spots the waitress approaching with their food.

Everyone digs into their lunch, even Sam, to Dean’s silent relief, and the conversation turns to more mundane topics.

~*~

After lunch, Dean and Prentiss drive back to the station, while Sam and Reid walk the short distance to the library. The sun is peeking through the clouds, and Reid finds himself relaxing. He matches his stride to Sam’s long legs, and finally asks the question that had been burning on his mind for two years now.

“Does burning fish hearts and livers keep the devil away?”

Sam’s brow crinkles. “No – I mean, if you use it as part of a ritual or a spell, maybe, but just in itself, no. Where did you hear about that?”

“It came up in a case a couple of years ago. The Unsub had three personalities, one of which was the archangel Raphael, and he… it doesn’t matter, I just remembered that he burned them.” Reid ducks his head, not daring to look at Sam again after his stuttered explanation. Unwanted memories rise in him – the stench of charred fish, that voice _“this will be over quickly if you just confess your sins”_ , and pain, _pain_ , then sweet oblivion. He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

Sam is casually walking beside him, but he can hear the sympathy and understanding in his voice. “It wasn’t really Raphael, in case you were wondering.”

“How do you know?” Reid keeps his eyes locked on the sidewalk, refusing to give Sam the opportunity to read his face.

“When an angel possesses someone, they’re the ones calling the shots. The human is completely suppressed. We met a former vessel of Raphael once. He was practically braindead. Archangels are too powerful for normal humans, they burn them up from the inside. It’s why Lucifer and Michael needed their true vessels for the Apocalypse.”

“What are true vessels? And why do angels possess people in the first place?”

“Seeing an angel’s true form would kill us. So, in order to come to Earth and interact with people, they basically possess someone.”

“Like demons?”

“Kinda, only that angels need consent from their vessel. It can be through tricks or coercion, though.” Sam clears his throat. “Not everyone is suited to be a vessel, and that goes double for archangels – and even the devil is still an archangel – some bodies just can’t handle it. True vessels come from certain bloodlines, they’re… think of them as custom-made suits.” His voice hitches at the end.

Reid finally turns his head. Sam’s face is pale, his eyes darting unsteadily.

“Are you okay?” He reaches out and lays a hand on Sam’s arm. The hunter flinches away violently, stumbling a step to the right and colliding with the brick wall of an apartment building.

Reid stands there, frozen, while Sam grabs the wall for support, his fingers digging into the unyielding stone. His breath comes in rapid burst.

Finally shaking off his stupor, Reid steps closer, while still making sure not to touch Sam. He can hear him mumbling under his breath, but not in any language he recognizes. Cold shivers run down his spine, the rays of the afternoon sun seemingly losing their heat.

“Sam. Sam, look at me.” Wild eyes jump to him, then back to the road, tracking cars driving past them. The stream of words doesn’t let up, only gaining a pleading undertone.

“Sam, I don’t know what you think is happening right now, but you’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. You’re okay, everything’s going to be fine.”

Reid keeps up a steady stream of reassurances for what feels like hours, though it can’t have been more than a few minutes. Sam’s mumblings eventually die down, and his huge eyes lock on Reid. He’s still breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

“Sam.” Making sure to keep his voice light and his movements slow, he reaches into his pocket for his phone. Sam still flinches away. “Do you want me to call your brother, Dean?”

“Dean?” The rough voice sounds hopeful.

“Yes, Dean. I can call him for you, if you give me his number. He can come here.”

Sam shakes his head violently, jerking away. He stumbles, knocking his elbow into the wall. The change is instant. The whole six-foot-four body goes still. Confused eyes take in the surrounding, and Reid doesn’t dare to move when they settle on him. Understanding dawns on Sam’s face, and he blushes. “I’m sorry.” The words are forced out, sounding oddly rehearsed. Sam runs a hand through his hair, takes a steadying breath. “I’m sorry.” This time, it’s less stilted, smoother. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“Don’t worry about me.” Reid does his best to smile reassuringly. “Are you okay? Do you want me to call Dean?”

“No.” He quickly shakes his head. “I’m fine. He doesn’t need to know right now, it would just distract him from the case. And we still have a murderer to catch.” He smooths down his hair and throws Reid a tight smile. “Come on.” With that, he strolls down the street as if nothing had happened.


	5. Chapter five

The police station is buzzing with nervous energy, officers coming and going, phones ringing, everyone is doing their best to find the Unsub, yet no one feeling like they have gotten any closer. Hotch is taking a minute to clear his thoughts and observe the activity in the room. His gaze falls on Dean Winchester and Prentiss, coming back from lunch, talking like old friends. Prentiss is quickly pulled aside by JJ, while Dean moves smoothly over to the crime scene pictures again. His suit is cheaper than anything Hotch would ever wear, yet he blends in easily, every movement of his muscles telling them he belongs here.

His eyes travel further, landing on Morgan. The agent is standing at the small kitchenette, pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee, and is also watching Dean Winchester. Hotch moves over.

“Are you okay?” He knows Morgan can read the concern in his face, even though it will look as stern as ever to the other officers.

“Yeah.” Morgan hesitates and lowers his voice. “I was just starting to come to terms with my faith again, you know? After…” He trails off, but Hotch nods, he knows what his agent is referring to.

“And now you know that they are real.”

“Yes. And I have no idea what to make of that. I mean, not having any proof that God and angels and Heaven exist is a part of having faith, and believing something exists when you _know_ it exists… it seems a bit obsolete.”

“You can still believe.”

“In angels? How can I believe in them when I know that they heard every single one of my prayers, when they knew exactly what that man was doing to me, and they did nothing?”

“You can start by believing in people. There will always be another man hurting innocent people, but there will also always be someone ready to stop him. Believe in that. Start from there and build on it. Or don’t. It’s your choice whether or not you want to put your faith in angels.”

“Yeah.” Morgan nods, visibly deliberating Hotch’s words. He drowns his cup of coffee and shakes his head. “We have more important things to discuss than my crisis of faith right now. We still have a killer on the loose, and they” he glances over at where Dean and detective Damcott are talking “have no idea what we’re dealing with.”

“Neither do we. But we’re still looking at both sides, our profile of the copycat as well as their lead about a potential monster.”

“Yes, but this is our job. We are actually authorized to be here!” Morgan leans closer. “Hotch, you’ve seen the same things I have. They’re unhealthily co-dependent, and there is definitely childhood trauma – a dead mother, and a possibly abusive father – plus whatever happened to Sam recently. Add to that their intelligence, skills and training. This may be the only opportunity we have to arrest them, and we should take it. They’re dangerous.”

“They are dangerous, but so are we. Besides, we’ve learned more from them in a single day than we’ve learned over the past two years.”

“If they’re telling the truth.”

“You’ve watched them, Morgan. Do you think they were lying?”

“No, but they haven’t been telling the whole truth either.”

“No. I never expected them to. You said it yourself, they’re co-dependent, and I doubt they have a lot, if any, experience with healthy relationships. Trusting us at all is a big step for them.”

“I know.” Morgan sighs.

“Look, we’re keeping a close eye on them, and- “ Hotch interrupts himself and frowns. Dean’s body language just went from relaxed to agitated, his shoulders forming a tense line. He motions Morgan to follow him and makes his way over to Dean and Matt.

“What’s going on?”, he asks.

“I just mentioned that everyone is afraid”, the detective says. “My niece even refuses to walk in front of the Wilson-house.”

“What Wilson-house? Stephen Wilson lived in an apartment building that was torn down fifteen years ago, we checked”, Morgan says.

“I know. It’s just a ghost story.”

“I love a good ghost story”, Dean says.

At the insistent looks of two agents and a hunter, the detective blows out a breath. “It’s an old house that has been abandoned for several years. Some kids began spreading the rumor that Wilson had lived there, and spent hours spying on his victims. I don’t know how they came up with the story, that house has no connection whatsoever with Wilson. But somehow, it got stuck in the kids’ heads, and now they even dare themselves to go and spend a night in a serial killer’s house. It’s ridiculous.” He shakes his head. “We get regular calls from the neighbors, mostly noise complains. We have to pick up a drunk teenager from time to time. Nothing serious.”

“When was the last time you’ve been in the house?”, Hotch asks.

“It’s been a while. I think Morrison was the last one there, just last week. Morrison!” He waves at a young officer. She strides over to them, studying them intently with her piercing blue eyes.

“You’ve been to the so-called Wilson-house last week, officer?”, Hotch asks.

“Yes. Officer Carter and I were called to investigate a noise complaint. By the time we got there, it was empty.” Her voice is calm, if she is nervous about speaking to federal agents, she doesn’t show it.

“Did you see or hear anything suspicious when you entered the house? Any weird smells maybe?”, Dean asks.

Morrison frowns. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe some kids left a few new tags, or some empty bottles. And it smelled just as musty as ever.”

“Was there any indication someone had spent a few days there? Like a sleeping bag?”, Hotch wants to know.

“No, nothing. But people wouldn’t stay there, too many kids come in. They have a weird fascination with that house.”

“Thank you, officer.” She nods at them and goes back to her desk.

“Did that help you?”, Damcott questions.

“Yes, actually. Do you have the address?” Matt nods at Dean’s question and leads them over to the map hanging on the board.

“It’s right here.” He indicates an address that’s just two streets away from Dana Summers house.

“I’ll check out the house.” Dean makes to turn away.

Hotch stops him in his tracks. “Take Morgan with you.”

Dean’s eyes narrow, and he waits a few moments too long until he nods. “I’m driving.”

~*~

Sam’s nose is buried in a book. The words are blurring before his eyes, and he is vaguely aware that he hasn’t turned a single page in the last half hour. Reid’s glances from the other side of the table are getting more and more frequent, and less and less subtle.

Maybe Dean was right, he shouldn’t have been talking about Hell like that – too many memories. He had a meltdown in the middle of the street, and Reid had tried to talk him out of it for who knows how long. If the sharp pain from hitting his elbow hadn’t brought him back to the present… He doesn’t even want to consider it. Bad enough that Dean and Bobby know just how screwed up he is, he doesn’t need a bunch of profilers poking around in his head. Maybe his brother was right, and they should have ditched them when they had the chance.

His vibrating phone indicates a message from Dean. He reads it, feeling his blood flow faster. Reid, still studying him, leans closer. “What is it?”

“A local ghost story involving the Wilson-house. Where did the history student go?”

He cranes his neck until he catches sight of her light brown hair. With Reid on his heels, he quickly approaches her.

“Hey, sorry to bother you again.”

“It’s no problem.” She smiles up at him. “Did you find what you were looking for in the books?”

“This is actually about something else. Do you know the ghost story involving the Wilson-house?”

She frowns. “Yes. The kids tell it all the time. I’m honestly surprised the newspapers haven’t mentioned it yet. What about it?”

“Do you know any details of the story?”

“There’s not much to tell, really. I remember it from when I was in high school. Someone spread the rumor that this serial killer, Stephen Wilson, was haunting the neighborhood, and that he was going after blondes, killing them the same way he killed those poor women. The part about the house only came later, and I have no idea why they connected the two.” She shrugs. “I never gave much thought to the story, but now with those murders, it gets you thinking, you know?”

“Does the story mention any way to protect yourself against his spirit?”

“Protect-? It’s just an urban legend.”

“I know, but a lot of ghost stories also mention a means of protection against them… Maybe salt, or iron? Please, humor me.”

She frowns, tapping a finger against her lips. “No, I don’t think it mentions any of that.”

“Okay.” Sam nods. “Thank you so much, you were very helpful.”

“I was? I mean, you’re welcome.”

Sam nods to Reid, who had followed the exchange silently, and the two of them quickly leave the library. The Impala pulls up on the curb just as they exit the building, and in his excitement, Sam is barely bothered by Morgan sitting in his customary seat in the front. He and Reid quickly climb in the back, and Dean pulls away.

“I think we’re on to something”, Sam says, and recounts what the librarian just told them.

Dean nods in satisfaction, while Reid and Morgan exchange a confused look. “What exactly does that tell us?”, Morgan asks.

Sam draws in a breath for a long-winded explanation, but Dean pulls up to the curb and cuts him off. “Means we gotta check out that house.” It’s a two-story house with a withering porch. Paint peels off the wood, and even from the distance, they can make out several tags on the door, walls and bolted-shut windows.

They pile out of the Impala, Sam and Dean heading for the trunk. When they open the hidden compartment, Morgan lets out a low whistle. “That’s quite the arsenal you’ve got there.”

“Yeah, well, it’s good to be prepared.” Dean grabs a shotgun and hands Sam the other. Both check them expertly before slamming the trunk closed and heading for the house.

“Why do you need those?”, Reid asks.

“They’re loaded with rock salt”, Sam explains. “If there is a ghost in there, it’ll keep him off our backs for a while.”

“Right”, Morgan mutters sarcastically.

Dean throws him a dirty look, but refrains from saying anything as they step onto the creaking porch. The door swings inward under their light touch. Broken glass crunches under their shoes as they step into the gloomy room. Sam and Dean click on the little flashlights they always keep on themselves, and Morgan follows their example. Reid looks between them, eyebrows raised. Sam smirks.

Up ahead, a door is barely visible behind a stairwell, and to the left and right two more doors lead further into the house. After a few quick gestures, Dean and Morgan take the left door, while Sam and Reid head to the right.

The room is bare of any furniture, but judging by the layout and the tiled walls, Sam guesses this used to be the kitchen. The beam of his flashlight glides over several tags, illuminating short phrases, little drawings, and a few symbols he recognizes. A pentagram, an inverted cross, a skull.

“Sam, over here!” At Dean’s shout, Sam and Reid quickly walk into the other room.

Dean is shining his flashlight at another symbol Sam recognizes instantly. It’s painted in red, and his mind flashes back to the last time he saw it, in a house not unlike this one. “Great.”

“What?” Reid looks at them in confusion.

The brothers exchange a look. “It’s a tulpa.”


	6. Chapter six

“What’s a tulpa?”, Hotch asks. His eyes shift to the windows of the conference room they’ve gathered in, but none of the police officers seem to pay them any attention.

“It’s a physical materialization of a thought, resulting in the creation of a being or an object”, Reid supplies, and shifts in his seat when everyone turns to him.

“He’s right”, Sam says. “That symbol in the house is a Tibetan spirit sigil. It focuses the energy of everyone who believes in the story of Wilson’s ghost, and when enough people believed it, the ghost just… came into being.”

“Wait, so he exists only because people believe he exists?”, Rossi asks.

“Pretty much, yeah.” Dean shrugs. “That and the symbol.”

“So, what, we take off the symbol and he disappears?”, JJ asks.

“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.” Sam frowns. “While he’s still forming, it’s possible to change the legend, and therefore change him, but once he’s fully created, he takes on a life of his own, and doesn’t need people to believe in him anymore.”

“And you think he’s fully created”, Hotch surmises.

“Yeah”, Dean says. “You heard the detective, even his niece believes in that ghost now. No wonder, with two women being killed inside locked rooms.”

“How do you get rid of a… tulpa?”, Morgan asks.

The brothers exchange a look that Hotch doesn’t like at all.

“Last time, we burned down the house.” Dean grins nonchalantly.

“Excuse me?” Hotch’s eyebrows rise.

Sam narrows his eyes at his brother. “That won’t work here. Mordechai couldn’t leave the house, but Wilson can. Even if we manage to lure him inside, he’ll just leave before it’s burned down completely.”

“We trap him in a salt circle. Remember H. H. Holmes?”

“The first serial killer?” Reid perks up.

“Yeah, we met his ghost a-“

“Dean, not now”, Sam cuts off his brother. “We don’t know if salt’ll work. It’s a tulpa, not a real ghost, and he didn’t leave any EMF either.”

“We don’t know that salt won’t work”, Dean counters. Hotch has to suppress a sigh. If they always approach cases like this, it’s a wonder they’re still alive.

“No, if we want to keep him inside the house, we need something that’ll harm him but not us.” Sam taps his fingers on the table. “Like… Missouri’s purification ritual!”

Dean leans forward. “Could work. D’you think it’s strong enough?”

“We could call Bobby, see if we can’t juice it up a bit.”

“Nice. And to get him into the house…” His eyes flicker in a direction Hotch really doesn’t like.

“That’s a terrible idea.” Sam shakes his head.

“I know. D’you have a better one?”

“No.”

“What’s the idea?”, Reid asks confused.

“Me”, JJ answers. “I’m the bait.”

“Oh, hell no!” Morgan jumps up from his seat. “No way.”

JJ looks straight at Dean. “Can you guarantee my safety?”

“I can guarantee you that that son of a bitch has to go through me to get to you.”

JJ studies Dean for several moments, taking in every line of his uncharacteristically open expression. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

~*~

“I got it.” Dean drops several bags on the table in front of Sam. “Do you know how far I had to drive to get crossroad dirt?”

“Thanks”, Sam mutters distractedly, listening to Bobby’s explanations.

“I also got burgers for everyone. I’m starving.” Dean sinks into a chair and puts up his feet on another. The BAU team gathers around the table, and everyone grabs some food, except for Sam, who is still writing down instructions.

“The last step is adding fresh blood of the tortured. I’d normally say that’s the hardest thing to get, but we’re talking about you, so…” Bobby tapers off.

“Yeah.” Sam clears his throat. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Watch your pronunciation, and make sure that you say the spell every time you place a bag in the wall, otherwise it won’t work, okay?”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“You idjits be careful.”

Sam smiles. “You too, Bobby.” He slips the phone into his pocket and stands up to get a better look at the bags of ingredients his brother brought.

Dean shoves a wrapped burger into his hands. “Eat before it gets cold, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes but takes a bite.

“So, what did Bobby say?” Dean asks around a bite of his food.

“He’s on a case of his own, and get this: he’s hunting a dragon.”

His big brother almost chokes on his burger. “No freaking way.”

“Yup.” Sam grins, ignoring the curious looks they’re both getting from the FBI agents.

“He need back-up?”

“Nah, he said he’d already called in Rufus and Garth.”

“Garth? Isn’t that the one he complained about for like thirty minutes last week?”

“Yup, the one who almost got himself killed by the tooth fairy.”

Dean snorts. “I’d pay to be a fly on the wall for that case.”

Sam just grins and bites into his burger. He manages to eat about half of it before focusing his attention back on the spell. He begins sorting and preparing the ingredients. Most of them go directly into the little pouches, but the crossroad dirt and a few herbs go into the bowl they carry around in the Impala. Meanwhile, Dean closes the blinds on the conference room windows – the station is less busy at this time, but a nosy officer could still mean awkward questions.

Sam mentally reviews the spell one last time, then he pulls out his pocketknife and slices over his hand. The gasps of the agents mix with the light sizzling as his blood hits the dirt. “Per virtutem sanguinis mei, eaque confirma.” A few wisps of smoke rise from the bowl.

“That was it?” Dean leans over and inspects it curiously.

“Yeah. I mean, we still have to put this” Sam indicates the bowl and the bags with the other ingredients “into eight pouches, one for each wall on each floor of the house. And say the spell when we put each bag into the wall.” He wraps a bandage around his hand, then looks up and sees the BAU agents stare at him.

Rossi is the first to move, placing his half-eaten burger on the table. “I think I’ve lost my appetite”, he says with a pointed look at the bloody pocketknife on the table. Sam looks sheepish.

“I thought magic was bad.” Morgan frowns.

“Magic in itself isn’t bad, it’s a tool”, Sam explains. “This is completely harmless. It’s just that most witches draw their powers from demons and don’t care who they hurt as long as they get what they want.”

“How does this work?” Hotchner brings them back to the topic at hand.

Sam leans back in his chair and explains.

~*~

It’s close to midnight when the BAU and the Winchesters pull up in front of the Wilson-house. The street is silent, only a few houses still show signs of life. Most people are already sleeping, ignorant to what is about to go down in their neighborhood.

The team is buzzing with nervous energy, and even Sam and Dean seem tenser than usual – although Reid is still not good at deciphering their body language. Everyone pulls on bulletproof vests, Dean tapping at the bright white FBI lettering with a smug smile in Sam’s direction, while his little brother just rolls his eyes in response.

Hotch checks the shotgun JJ organized somewhere – Reid has learned not to question her endless supply of strings she pulls – and accepts the rock salt rounds from Dean.

Sam hands two bags each to Rossi, Prentiss and Reid, and puts the remaining two in his own pockets. “All of you remember the chant, right?”

“In virtute autem sanguis cruciati, mundate domum hanc”, Rossi recites. All of them follow suit, one by one, and Sam nods each time like a satisfied teacher. Then he turns his gaze to Morgan, who interrupts him and twirls an iron rod in his hand.

“If it behaves like a ghost, it can hit us, but we might not be able to hit it. So, evade as much as possible, and hit it with salt and iron. I remember.”

“I know.” Sam ducks his head. “It just- it’s a bit disconcerting the, uh, the first time you shoot something and it doesn’t go down.”

“Everyone ready?” Hotch looks at them, then he clicks his flashlight on and leads the way to the house. Little twigs and dried leaves crunch under their feet, then the porch creaks. Once inside the house, Hotch, Rossi and Prentiss veer off into what was once the living room. JJ, Morgan and Dean take position at the end of the hallway, while Reid and Sam go upstairs.

Reid can feel Morgan’s look on him as he ascends – he knows his friend wants to keep an eye on him, but ultimately decided to stay with JJ. As bait, she’s the one most at risk, and if everything goes according to plan, neither Reid and Sam nor Rossi, Prentiss and Hotch should even get to see the tulpa.

Dean slinks into the shadows under the stairs. Morgan disappears into the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall, leaving the door open. Their hiding places are shit – the tulpa only needs to take one good look and it’ll see them. Still, hopefully Jareau’s presence will be enough to distract it. She shifts nervously, then turns in a circle, all the while being careful not to shine her flashlight at them.

A car passes on the street outside. The rumbling is enough to distract Dean for just a moment, and he almost misses Jareau’s gasp. He draws his attention back to her just in time. A man is charging her, a knife with a jagged edge in his outstretched hand. Dean jumps forward, putting himself between the agent and the tulpa, and shoots. The salt hits it square in the chest, and it stumbles. It regains his footing quickly, though – too quickly.

He shoots again. It doesn’t even slow this time, and Dean barely manages to rise the shotgun defensively. The knife glances over the barrel, a pale hand grabs for his arm. Movement on the edge of his vision, and Morgan swings his iron rod and hits it right in the head. The tulpa staggers back, hissing and fletching its teeth. It’s gone between one blink and the next, leaving Dean, Morgan and Jareau panting in the hallway.

A shot echoes through the night. Hotch rises the shotgun in anticipation, his back to the wall, and scans the room in front of him. A second shot drowns out Rossi and Prentiss reciting the chant as they stuff the first two bags in the south and west wall. The living room takes up half of the ground floor, and three walls are accessible from here, only the east wall is in what was once the kitchen.

Prentiss hurries to the north wall, kicks in the half-rotten boards and drops another bag inside, quickly reciting the chant again. A figure appears out of thin air. He’s a caricature of a man, with deathly pale skin and fingers that resemble claws as they clutch around a wicked-looking knife. He lounges.

“Prentiss!”, Hotch shouts, firing at the same time. The salt does nothing to stop it, and for just a moment, he freezes. Prentiss rolls to the side at the last moment, the knife slashing at air. She jumps to her feet, reflexively pulling her own gun, but it’s gone again.

“Where did it go?”, she asks breathlessly.

“I don’t know. Let’s put in the last bag.” Hotch takes control again, just as Dean, Morgan and JJ appear in the door.

“You okay?”, Morgan asks.

“Yes.” Hotch leads the way to the kitchen. “The salt doesn’t work.”

“Yeah, we noticed.” Dean grimly watches Rossi as he deposits the last bag and recites the chant. “Where-“

A shotgun blast interrupts his question.

“Shit, Sam!” Dean runs for the stair, in the direction of the shot, the others quickly following suit. Gunshots ring out – one, two, three, Hotch counts as he takes the stairs two at a time. A crash sounds from the left, and a door slams shut with finality.

“Sam!” Dean crosses the last feet of the hallway and slams his shoulder into the door, but the wood, as fragile as it looks, doesn’t budge.

“Let me!” Morgan wedges his iron rod into the slit between the door and the frame, but no matter how much weight he puts behind it, the wood doesn’t give.

They’re left standing helplessly in the dark corridor and listen to another crash from inside the room.

Four doors open like dark mouths as Sam and Reid reach the top of the stairs. Sam studies the first on the left – what used to be the bedroom – ignoring the second on the left, the bathroom, and the first on the right. For now, though, they head to the second on the right. It’s indicated as the study on the old building plans, but nothing’s left of the furniture, and the woods panels in the walls give easily under their kicks.

Once they’ve created the holes in the north and east walls, they settle in to wait for the tulpa to arrive at the house. Waiting is always the worst part, and judging by Reid’s fidgeting, he agrees. Sam sends him a reassuring smile. He holds the shotgun loosely in his right hand, while the left one already holds a pouch. Reid is only armed with his service weapon – still holstered – and a flashlight. He kneads the pouch nervously in his hands.

A shot spurs them into action. Sam is already dropping the pouch in the wall and rattling off the chant, Reid only a few seconds behind him, as a second, and then a third shotgun blast sound. They quickly straighten up and head for the door. They’ve barely reached the middle of the room when a figure appears in the doorway. Ignoring Reid’s flinch at his side, Sam rises his shotgun and fires. The salt doesn’t stop his charge, and Sam pushes Reid to the left, sidesteps to the right and swings the shotgun like a club. It collides with something solid, then the tulpa grabs it and pulls. Sam has to let go to avoid stumbling into the knife.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Reid already halfway to the door. Cutting his losses, Sam turns and runs after him. He barely hears his brother calling for him, too intend on pulling out his gun. He half-turns around, running down the hallway, and fires at the tulpa. It growls, crosses the distance in the blink of an eye and barrels into Sam. The force sends him stumbling through the doorway and into Reid, and they go down. The gun and flashlight clatter to the floor, the beam coming to rest on the door just as it slams shut.

Sam pulls the pouch from his pocket and shoves it into Reid’s hands. “Hurry”, me mutters, and jumps back to his feet. He turns around just in time to see it charging at him. As flickering as ghosts often appear, Sam knows they can pack a punch. He quickly pulls the demon knife and steels himself for the impact. The tulpa hits him like a freight train, sending them to the floor in a tangle of limbs. The impact leaves him breathless. A slice against the vest sends him back into action, bringing up his arms. Adrenaline is coursing red-hot through his veins. He hears a mumbled chant and has to suppress the instinct to check on Reid. His left hand grabs fabric, the knife in his right one pierces flesh. It lets out a shriek, flinching away, and Sam uses the little breathing space to twist his legs and put in a well-placed kick.

It stumbles back, hissing like a feral cat. Sam bolts up from the floor, settling in a fighting stance. He feels Reid move behind him but doesn’t dare look away from Wilson to check on his progress.

Cold, narrowed eyes settle on the knife in Sam’s hand. It leans forward slightly. The distance is covered unnaturally fast, and Sam has to suppress the instinct to swivel out of his path. Instead, he stands his ground between Reid and the monster.

The Latin chant hits the same moment it collides with Sam. For just a second, he swears he can feel the hellfire devouring the tulpa. The floor comes up to meet him fast and knocks the breath out of him yet again. Black spots dance across his vision. When they clear, Reid is leaning over him. Concerned eyes peer down at him.

“Sam.” His voice is breathless, full of barely suppressed panic.

“I’m good”, Sam presses out. He manages to get himself into a sitting position, leaning on his left hand, while the right one still clutches at the knife.

A pair of hands hover uncertainly just inches from his shoulders. “You shouldn’t move too much, Sam. I think you hit your head.”

The door slams open, and Dean comes barreling through. “Sam!”

Reid backs away, and Dean drops to a knee in front of his brother.

Morgan, Jareau, Hotchner, Rossi and Prentiss are just behind Dean, immediately checking on Reid. “What happened?”, Morgan asks.

“It… burned away.” Reid gestures his hands.

“Are you hurt, kid?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Sam feels the agents’ eyes turn to him. He pats away his brother’s probing hands. “I’m good, Dean, it’s just a few bruises.”

Dean grumbles under his breath, but he gets to his feet and pulls his brother up with him. Once standing, Sam tucks the demon knife back into his pocket. He moves his left hand to undo the Velcro patches on the vest, when unexpected pain shoots up his arm. “Huh.”

Dean follows his gaze. “Just bruises, right?”, he asks sarcastically, gently gripping Sam’s arm and twisting it to get a better look at the cut. Blood is slowly seeping into the flannel shirt.

The little group piles into the sidewalk. Dean guides his brother to their car, while the agents linger uncertainly. They just killed a monster, closed a case, and no one will ever know about it. What are they supposed to tell the cops? Or the grieving families? Reid finds himself mulling over those questions while he watches the brothers. They’ve shed their vests, and Sam’s pulling off his flannel shirt. He shivers slightly as the cool air hits his bare arms, and sits down on hood of the car, only in a t-shirt. Dean is rummaging through the Impala for the first aid kit.

Low voices drift over, Dean telling a joke while cleaning and stitching up the wound on Sam’s arm in the beam of a flashlight. The cut doesn’t appear to be too deep – they’d resolutely refused to go to the hospital when Hotch had suggested it – but Reid still feels guilty. If he’d just been quicker with the spell, or more agile on his feet, Sam wouldn’t have had to put himself between Reid and that monster.

A ringing interrupts the silent night, and Hotch steps away from the group to answer it. Morgan nudges Reid in the side to catch his attention. He pulls up an eyebrow, and that’s all the prompting Reid needs to go over to the brothers.

Dean barely glances up, too intent on tying up the last stitch, and Reid can’t help but marvel at their tidiness. Sam smiles at him, full of post-fight adrenaline. “You did good in there.”

Reid shakes his head at the undeserved praise. “I should’ve been faster. You shouldn’t have... I’m sorry. And thank you. For protecting me.” He can’t seem to look away from the cut, even as Dean wraps a pristine white bandage around it.

“Spencer.” His head snaps up at the unexpected use of his first name. “You did good, especially for your first hunt.” Huge brown eyes lock with his, willing him to understand. He feels more than he sees Dean move away. “This” Sam points at the bandage with his right hand still holding the flashlight “is just a cut. It’ll heal in a few days, nothing to worry about. And it certainly wasn’t your fault. You finished the ritual. And it worked.”

Any further protest dies on his tongue through the sheer force of those puppy dog eyes. He gives a reluctant nod. Still, his eyes trail down to Sam’s arms again, the white bandage shining bright in the beam of the flashlight. Not just that, though. Several scars, some old and faded, barely visible, others new and freshly healed, snake their way up and down Sam’s arms like an abstract painting.

He wants to ask, gathers his courage, but Dean steps close before he can open his mouth.

“Some neighbors called in the shots.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to where Hotch is quietly speaking with the rest of the team. “Hotchner talked to the cops, but we should still get out of here.”

Sam nods, slides off the hood.

“Do you want to get breakfast?”, Reid blurts out. The brothers turn back to him in confusion. He blushes but barrels on. “Not now, I mean. Tomorrow morning. We could go over the case again, figure out what we’re gonna tell Pittsburgh PD.”

Dean hesitates, but Sam nods, smiling. “Good idea.” With that, both hunters slide into the car, shutting the doors simultaneously. The black car disappears into the night with a friendly rumble.


	7. Chapter seven

_“Oh, poor Sammy”, the voice croons into his ears. He tries to move away, but doesn’t manage more than a weak twitch of what was once his hand. “We were so careless again, Mikey and me. But then again, it’s your fault we’re down here in the first place, isn’t it? So, you’re only getting your fair punishment.” Cold fingers caress his flesh, and torn muscles and tendons stitch themselves back together, until his neck is a pristine island in a sea of gore. “Aren’t you, Sammy?”_

_“Yes”, he croaks out._

_The fingers pause, before digging painfully into his open chest._

_“Yes, master!” Sam hurriedly bites out. It’s better to obey when He’s in one of those moods._

_“Very good, my little pet. You’re learning. For that, you’re even getting your eyes back.”_

_The fingers swipe theatrically over his face. Sam can’t help but let out a whimper as he feels his flesh knitting back together, shifting against still-open wounds. A face comes into view, blond hair sticky with Sam’s blood._

_“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Don’t make that sound when I’m helping you. You should know better than that, Sammy. Then again, you always were a slow learner, weren’t you. I guess I’ll have to repeat that lesson. It’s for your own good.”_

_The face begins to shift, to glow, until His true form cracks through the façade of Nick. Sam knows he should turn away, close his eyes. Instead, he watches in sick fascination. It’s more beautiful and more horrible than he could ever imagine, indescribable in a language as primitive as English. Even the most complex Enochian phrases can’t come close to the level of beauty that’s His half-seen true form. He holds it for a few seconds, letting Sam admire it, before He shifts again. All pretends of humanness drop away, and then there’s only light and power and burning searing pain pain pain-_

“Sam! Sam, wake up!”

He gasps, drawing in breath like a drowning man. Hands on his shoulders, and he has to get away, _away_ – his body obeys him when he scrambles back, over the soft surface, until his back hits something solid.

He opens his eyes – unburned eyes – and gauges the room. It is strange, yet familiar, in a way that all motel rooms morph into one over time. A figure is crouched in front of him, half-lit by the lamp on the nightstand. Blond hair is sticking up, hands raised to hit him. Sam blinks, and the image shifts – no blood in the hair, hands raised to placate him. The face is not Nick, it’s Dean, it’s his brother. Isn’t it? He’s very good at these games, at getting Sam to drop his guard. How many times has this happened, has he felt Dean’s hands rip him apart, seen that twisted version of his smile-

“Sammy, look at me. You’re safe, okay? I got you out. You have to remember that. I got you out.”

The soft pleading sends a pang through his chest. He remembers how he got out – he woke up in Bobby’s panic room with a wall instead of memories, he woke up on a field without a soul, he woke up in Bobby’s panic room with Hell burning in his head, he woke up in Rufus’ cabin, he woke up in the Impala-

He remembers a dozen different ways of how he got out, and a dozen and one of how it wasn’t real.

Dean-who-may-not-be-Dean is still talking to him, sweet reassurances. Sam wants nothing more than to believe him, to curl up in his arms like he did as a kid.

But there are rules, a hundred rules for a hundred different games, and Sam remembers them all, has them seared into his skin, his very soul.

He wants this to be real, but he can’t risk it. Can’t take the chance that he’s wrong, that this is another game, because he knows all too well what happens when he screws up again. And he’s too tired to take it again. He just wants to enjoy this moment without pain. Suspended in the eerie twilight, with his brother’s voice washing over him.

No matter how selfish it is, he wants to enjoy this peace for as long as it lasts.

The sun peeks through the windows, and still, Sam hasn’t moved. How long can this go on until someone expects him to do something? A movement from Dean shakes him out of his thoughts. His brother is glancing at the clock on the nightstand, and a face comes to mind, an invitation- _“Do you want to get breakfast?”_

If this is real, he has to be there, and if it’s not – well, it’s better to play along. Every illusion is better than going back to that place.

He shifts his weight, drawing Dean gaze back to him.

“Sammy?”

He licks his lips. “We, uh, we’re gonna be late for breakfast.”

Dean looks at him as if he just broke his heart, and he freezes, ice crawling through his chest. Did he break the rules?

“English, Sammy. I don’t speak Enochian.”

Sam blinks. He wasn’t even aware he used a different language than Dean just now. He opens his mouth to force out the English words, but – what if this is a trick? He knows the rules, and speaking English is- _“Do I have to repeat that lesson again? Fine. This word means brother.” Dean’s twisted face is grinning down at him while his hands put a knife to Sam’s stomach and carve._

Sam shakes his head. Maybe it’s a new game. Confusion rises in him, and he opts not to answer at all. Instead, he slowly, carefully, slides off the bed and grabs his clothes, not letting Dean’s figure out of his sight.

~*~

Sugar trickles into coffee in a promise of sweetness and energy. Reid stirs his spoon silently, then sets it down on the table and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s hot, scalding his tongue, but he can almost feel the energy returning and chasing away the last remnants of sleep. He hums in contentment.

“Do you two need some time alone?” Morgan’s eyes flicker between Reid’s face and his cup, a smirk on his face.

“Only if you leave your coffee with me”, Reid shoots back. His night was decidedly too short – he spent half of it lying awake on his bed and reliving every single moment in the Wilson-house.

“Don’t get cocky.” Morgan grins and wraps a hand protectively around his cup.

Reid and Morgan both turn to look at Emily. She pulls her own coffee closer. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t get enough beauty sleep, the least you can do is leave me my coffee.”

Reid’s attention is pulled from their bickering to Rossi’ quiet voice. “They’ll come.”

Hotch frowns. “They’re already ten minutes late.”

“So? They didn’t get that much sleep, either.” Rossi shrugs, but his eyes scan the diner again. It’s the morning rush, almost all tables are taken. The waitress keeps shooting them dirty looks, not happy that they’ve decided to wait until the Winchesters get here before ordering the food.

Finally, the door opens with a ding and two tall figures step through. Reid immediately knows something is off. Dean puts on a good façade, smiling at the waitress as he passes her, but he looks as if he didn’t sleep at all. Sam, too, is pale, with heavy bags under his eyes. He’s hunched in on himself, his fingers twitching and his eyes jumping erratically, as if trying to watch everyone at once.

“Morning”, Dean greats with a fake smile. He takes a seat, smiling a bit more genuine when he notices that both seats they’ve saved have a good view of the front door and the kitchen door.

Sam’s greeting is indistinguishable, and he doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as he sits down gingerly.

The waitress appears, handing them menus and supplying the Winchesters with coffee. Dean’s flirtatious smile even manages to wipe the scowl on her face.

Once she’s gone, Dean studies his menu, but occasionally glances at Sam. The younger one hesitantly picks up his menu, eyes flickering uncertainly to the agents watching him.

“D’you know what you want, Sammy?”

Sam nods and says something in a weird language. Reid needs a moment to identify it as the one he used when he had the panic attack.

“I’d say use your words, but…” Dean smiles crookedly. Sam frowns and taps at something on his menu.

Dean leans over. “Pancakes, good choice. D’you want some fresh fruit with them?”

Sam nods.

“Anything else?”

A headshake.

A tense silence settles over the table, only broken when the waitress comes back. Even though Dean orders for himself and Sam, it seems more normal than Reid, who’s ripped from his thoughts and fumbles with the menu for a good thirty seconds before he remembers what he wanted.

When they’re alone again, Dean leans back seemingly relaxed, Sam sips his coffee, and the agents watch them.

Hotch is the one to finally break the silence. “What’s wrong?”

Sam freezes, and Dean bristles. “There ain’t nothing wrong with him, okay? He just doesn’t feel like speaking English today.”

Hotch frowns. “That’s not how I meant it.”

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Listen. The cases aren’t always as neat as this one, okay? It’s blood and death and-“ Dean’s eyes flicker to Sam and he sighs. “This life can be pretty ugly. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Hotch nods, and Reid knows he’s not the only one who’s mind is replaying some of their worst cases. Henkel jumps out, always just lurking under the surface. Was it as bad for the brothers? Or even worse? How much trauma does it take to get someone to temporarily abandon his mother tongue?

Caught in his musings, Reid is only half aware of the conversation turning back to the case. He catches Hotch’s thunderous expression when Dean suggests burning down the Wilson-house “just in case” and Morgan’s insistence that they have to tell the families something.

The discussion carries on even after the food arrives, eventually settling on the official cover story.

“We went to get our own impression of the so-called Wilson-house”, Hotch explains. “We heard the shots just as we pulled up, but by the time we arrived, no one was there anymore. We suspect our Unsub was visiting the house when he was interrupted by someone from the neighborhood who made the same assumption we did and chased him off with a gun.”

“And how long do we wait until we leave? What do we tell the families? ‘Sorry, we caught the guy, but we can’t tell you’? Or ‘sorry, but we have more important cases’?”, Morgan repeats his argument.

“You could always just steal an unidentified body from the morgue and use him as a scapegoat”, Dean throws in. The agents gape at him. “I’m just kidding. You either don’t tell them anything, or you tell them the whole truth. What, do you think, will make them feel safer?”

Morgan runs a hand over his face. “I hate this.”

A heavy silence settles as they poke at the last remnants of their breakfast.

Sam’s hand snakes over the table and places a small object next to Reid’s plate. A flash drive, as the agent sees when he picks it up. “Is this for me?”, he asks.

Sam nods, truly looking at him for the first time today.

“Thank you.”

Sam replies something in that strange language, and Reid can’t keep his curiosity at bay any longer. “What language is that?”

“Enochian.” Dean’s short answer and his accompanying glare dare anyone to ask any more questions, but Reid doesn’t need to. His eyes widen as pieces of the puzzle fall into place – not enough to see the picture clearly, but he’s got the edge pieces in order. It’s enough to recognize a pattern.

Sam studies him with wide eyes, and Reid leans closer, his face serious. “Are you going to be okay?”

Sam blinks, then his face breaks out into a smile full of dimples and crinkles around the eyes.

For now, that’s answer enough.

~*~

Fingers drum the beats to AC/DC’s Thunderstruck on the wheel as Baby glides down the road. Dean occasionally glances over at his little brother in the passenger seat, making sure that he’s still awake. As much as Dean knows Sam needs to sleep more, he also does not want a repeat performance of the previous night. The blood-curling screams still echo in his ears.

“It’s surreal”, Sam says, unsuccessfully suppressing a flinch.

A smile creeps on Dean’s face as he hears the first English words of the day. “What is?”

“Us, working with the FBI.”

“You’re telling me. I was half-convinced Hotchner would still arrest us this morning. Not let us drive away with good wishes.”

Sam hums. Dean looks over and sees a tell-tale frown on his little brother’s face.

“What is it, Sammy?”

“They’re gonna ask questions about, uh, about me.”

“Let them.” Dean tries not to show how terrified he is by the same prospect.

“What if they figure out just how messed-up I am? What if they try to… to lock me away?”

“Hey.” Dean reaches out and gently squeezes Sam’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to be a bit crazy after what you went through. And I would even choose a full-blown, crazy dripping out of your ears you over them any day. Don’t worry, okay? I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

“Okay.” Sam’s lips curl into a smile. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

~*~

Reid heads for his laptop the minute he steps into the police station. Prentiss and Morgan are right on his heels, while Hotch, Rossi and JJ catch up with the local police. Unsurprisingly, there are no new developments.

They extricate themselves as quickly as possible and join the rest of the team in the conference room, where Reid has already pulled up the contents of the flash drive. It’s full of documents and pictures, all carefully labeled. The one that’s called ‘Spencer’ is the first one they open.

_Hey Spencer,_

_I thought I’d leave you some reading material. It’s basic lore about the most common monsters, and some pointers about how to identify supernatural cases. I hope it helps._

_Call us if you need anything and try not to get yourself killed._

_\- S. W._

“That’s hundreds of pages”, JJ comments. She, Prentiss and Morgan are gathered around the laptop, while Reid’s opening random documents and scrolling through them.

“This looks like it’s from an old book”, he comments excitedly. “Looks like this one’s written by Sam, it’s his style. And those are pictures of a journal. Like a hunter’s journal!”

Rossi looks at Hotch pointedly. He doesn’t even have to say anything, Hotch gets the message, and he’s already reached the same conclusion.

Nothing about working with the Winchesters will be as easy as an FBI – informant relationship, and they haven’t seen the last of them.


End file.
